


tonight lets be lovers

by bottomlinsons (grimgrace)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 13k of fluff and misunderstandings, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst Free Zone, Louis POV, M/M, eyy, harry is incredibly mysterious and suave and cool, louis is a hot mess, zayn and liam are all of my long term relationship goals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimgrace/pseuds/bottomlinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis' a hot mess, Harry's just hot and a one night stand is never just a one night stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tonight lets be lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rangifertarandus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangifertarandus/gifts).



> i tried so hard to fit some kind of angst in but i just couldn't manage it so the prompt is a little warped. this is essentially 13K of Louis mooning over Harry and not realising that Harry is 100000% down to relationship. 
> 
> massive massive massive thanks to [eve](http://ariadneodair.tumblr.com/) and [alix](http://musuak.tumblr.com/) for reading over this and reassuring me that it wasn't complete shit

Louis is feeling good.

Really good. Golden even.

“Mate!” Louis says, shouting to be heard over the thumping bass music. “I feel golden!”

The reward for this announcement is, apparently, to be thoroughly groped. Ordinarily, Louis would probably complain about it – sexual harassment is not something Louis would ever silently put up with – but there’s absolutely nothing about his very statuesque, very fucking gorgeous dance partner that says ‘ordinary,’ and in this case – the move is very, _very_ welcome.

The boy’s grin, when he tosses his curls from his eyes and leans closer to Louis, is positively predatory. He gives Louis’ arse a healthy squeeze.

“You sure do,” he drawls into Louis’ ear.

 _Mmm,_ cheeky. Louis’ not sure his arse _can_ feel golden – at least not in the way his head does, floaty and exactly the right kind of high – but it’s a compliment and this boy has an absolutely lovely deep voice. Louis would very much like to hear him moan.

“Skin’s golden as well,” the boy murmurs, pressing his lips right up against Louis’ ear and breathing wetly there, “god, _fuck_. Look at your _fucking_ tan.”

Louis preens a little bit.

(Okay, a lot.)

Never one to shy away from appreciating his own assets (example one: the fucking painted on jeans he wriggled into before heading out two hours previously) Louis shoots him his best smile. The music the club is playing is absolutely awful – horrible techno-remixes of the latest top twenty – but this dubstep version of ‘ _Riptide’_ has a little melody to it. Enough, at least, to excuse Louis’ responding hip shimmy (also known: terrible excuse to press his arse back into his boy’s big, big hands.)

God, he is very, very drunk.

And golden.

Very, very golden.

The boy nips at the seam of Louis’ jaw for a second, before dragging his lips across Louis’ neck. He slips his thumbs into the belt loops of Louis’ jeans and pulls Louis closer, jamming their hips together and introducing Louis to a very interested, very hard party in his companion’s pants.

“Come back to mine,” the boy says lowly.

Louis should probably figure out this boy’s name.

The boy rocks against him again, his thick thigh slipping between Louis’ legs and pressing just fucking _there_.

“Uhm, yes please,” Louis says, after a long groan.

This time when the guy pushes close to his neck, he actually sinks his teeth in, and _fuck_ that’s literally Louis’ kryptonite. Maybe he doesn’t need to figure out this guy’s name after all; maybe he can just call him sex god for the next few hours.

“Okay, yes. Yes. Okay,” Louis says.

The boy pulls away, his lips red and shiny, and grins down at Louis again. He is very, very tall.

“You are very, very tall,” Louis says.

Holy fuck. Louis’ boy has dimples.

“You are very, very drunk,” his boy says.

Louis lifts a finger. His intention, of course, is to investigate these dimples up close and personal – but his aim is a little off. Instead of getting his boy’s cheek, his finger presses up against his boy’s very pink lips.

“Not that drunk,” Louis says matter-of-factly. “I’ll have you know that I am completely within my capacities, just because you’re— _ohmotherfuck._ ”

Louis’ boy sucks on Louis’ finger enthusiastically, swirling his tongue around the tip. Around them, the song changes and the dance floor gets a little more crowded. And Louis would notice, he really would, because _uptown funk_ is his fucking _jam_ and he can dance his arse off to this song even on his worst day – but he’s currently on the receiving end of a very bizarre, very hot index-finger blow job.

And Louis’ dick is very interested.

Fuck, he says very a lot doesn’t he?

“I say ‘very’ a lot, don’t I?” Louis says. His voice is a little hoarse, but he figures he can get away with it because of the aforementioned phalange-fellatio.

His boy snorts, laughing suddenly enough that he bites down a little on Louis’ finger. When he pulls away, Louis lingers for half a second – his spit-soaked finger hovering awkwardly in the air while his brain tries to sort everything out.

He clears his throat. “We should, uh,” he starts. “We should go to your place.”

His boy’s grin comes rocketing back – but there’s something a little bit serious in his eyes that snags Louis’ attention.

He moves closer and settles his big, grope-y hands on either side of Louis’ face, cupping his cheeks and leaning in close. “How many drinks’ve you had, love?”

Louis frowns. “Only like – five.”

Or six. Seven maybe.

And that’s a lot, sure, but not so much that Louis can’t puzzle out what his boy is really asking. He thinks he gets it. It’s very sweet.

“But you’re feeling alright, right?” his boy checks.

“Right,” Louis says.

His boy smiles. “Good,” he says.

Louis grins right back. “Good,” he copies. Then he juts out his chin. “How do _you_ feel?”

The boy smiles, gently this time – like he’s touched that Louis’ with it enough to ask. “I’m fine,” he says. “I haven’t had so much to drink, I think. Just a few.”

Music to Louis’ ears.

“Awesome,” he says. “You feel up to fucking me in the arse, then?”

This time it’s the boy who chokes. Louis preens at that, as well. His ability to catch people off guard has always been one of his proudest talents.

“It’s not a task for the weak-hearted,” Louis continues, “I expect to be thoroughly sodomized, calling out for our lord and saviour and all that jazz.”

“Jesus Christ,” the boy says.

“That’s the spirit.”

His boy doesn’t waste any time after that, reaching for Louis’ hand and tugging him towards the exit. This night is going swimmingly. It’s actually quite lovely, Louis thinks, seeing his smaller fingers so tangled up in his boy’s big ones.

But not quite as lovely as it had been seeing them in his boy’s wet mouth.

“Can you suck my fingers in the cab, please?”

His boy just tugs him along a little faster.

**.**

The boys’ flat is lovely and his bed is even lovelier. Louis stays for much longer than just a few hours.

All things considered, Louis’ happy as a cat with cream when he wakes up the next morning. There’s an ache that runs from his arse all the way down his thighs, his skin is littered with a gorgeous array of scratches and bruises, and his muscles feel sated in a way that haven’t for a long time.

The boy doesn’t seem particularly upset when Louis leaves. Instead of panicking, or asking what he’s done wrong, the boy just watches as Louis gets dressed, humming appreciatively when Louis bends over to struggle into his jeans (if Louis’ shakes his hips a little more than necessary, then no one ever needs to know.) He can actually _feel_ the messy tangle that his hair has become and he feels appropriately smug – partly because he’s just had some very satisfactory sex but _mostly_ because he’s finally remembered his boy’s name.  

Which is good, because it’s probably time to stop calling him ‘his boy’ in his head.

When he reaches the bedroom door, he spins around and shoots ~~his~~ the boy a salute. “Well, thanks for that!” he says. “See you around, Henry!”

Nailed it.

**.**

A few weeks later, Louis isn’t riding quite the same high.  

“Zayn,” he says, when he gets home. “Zayn, I have had a bad day.”

He stretches out his limbs and drapes himself over the largest, squishiest couch they have in their small, shared apartment. He pays no attention to his housemate, who seems to think that sitting in said seat somehow means he’s claimed it.

“Ow—fuck!” Zayn hisses, when one of Louis’ elbows catches him in the gut. “Fuck’s sake, Louis!”

“Cuddle me,” Louis insists pathetically.

Zayn doesn’t reply for a second; too busy shifting beneath Louis to avoid the boniest points of impact. When he’s settled and apparently satisfied he turns to Louis with a frank look on his face. “You’re a clingy little bitch, you know that right?”

Louis closes his eyes and snuggles closer.

“Don’t use that word, it’s very rude,” he says, pressing his face into Zayn’s neck. “Say I’m a clingy little dick it’s much less insulting to women.”

“You’re a clingy little dick, then.”

“Thank you.”

After a beat, Zayn pulls his arms free and brings them around Louis. He pulls him a little closer, and sighs. “What’s up then?” he asks.

The general facts are these: Louis works at a small clothing boutique in the middle of the city, selling expensive clothes to stupid people. These people are not restricted by gender – men and women alike prove to him every morning that people are assholes and people with money are bigger assholes. Also, they apparently find it incredibly difficult to read labels and know their own damn size.

In addition to this, his boss is a total fucking nightmare who blames him for all their customer’s shitty mistakes.

“Had a guy today who wouldn’t let me put him in anything bigger than a forty-two,” he says. Suits are essentially the bane of his existence. “He stretched out two suits and didn’t buy anything – then he complained to Ruth.”

Ruth is Louis’ aforementioned boss.

She’s basically the worst.

“So she yelled at me for like fifteen minutes out back, and then made me apologise. And like, half an hour later, the register broke and I had to handwrite receipts for the rest of the day.”

Zayn coos. “Sucks, babe.”

Zayn always knows what to say.

“You wanna go get a drink? Niall’s doing a thing down at the pub, if you wanna check it out.”

Zayn _really_ always knows what to say.

It takes a few minutes for Zayn to persuade Louis to leave the couch. Soon thereafter, the apartment devolves into a panic as Louis screeches at Zayn to help him find something to wear.

Ten minutes after deciding on his favourite skinny jeans and a scoop neck tee, with Zayn looking as effortlessly beautiful as usual, they get to the pub. Niall and Liam are already here, according to their texts on Zayn’s phone, and finding them isn’t hard. Niall’s laughing uproariously by the pool tables – surrounded by a group of people clearly having just as good a time – and Liam is sitting in a booth nearby, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face.

Zayn slides next to him and without a moment’s pause Liam lifts his arm to make room for him. They slot together fucking effortlessly, Louis thinks, like all that other shit that belongs together; like tea and biscuits, and scones and cream.

“Hey babe,” Liam murmurs, as soon as he’s pulled Zayn close enough. He presses a kiss to the side of Zayn’s head and settles his arm heavily on Zayn’s shoulder. “How’re you?”

Zayn smiles beatifically up at him. “Better now,” he hums.

Louis gags.

Of course, they don’t notice. Louis makes it a little clearer.

“I’m gagging,” he tells them.

Liam grins. “Hey, Louis,” he says.

Smug fuck.

“Lou’s had a bad day,” Zayn reports, running his fingers over the back of Liam’s knuckles and leaning his head back to rest on Liam’s massive shoulder. He’s a smug fuck too.

Of course, Liam’s too genuine for Louis to stay mad. He breaks out the puppy eyes with expert precision, and as per usual, Louis is rendered completely helpless.

“Work?” Liam says.

“Work,” Louis says glumly.

He sets his head in his hands. He needs a drink. He needs a lot of drinks.

“Cheer up, mate,” Liam says, with that stupid little eye crinkle of his. “Isn’t it your day off tomorrow?”  

Actually yes. Mondays – the bane of any normal person’s existence have quickly become Louis’ favourite day of the week. The shining highlight of his shitty, shitty day is that Louis will spend the next twenty four hours wrapped up in bed with his laptop and some tea.

“See?” Liam says enthusiastically. “This’ll be great, you can have a few drinks and all your problems will go away. And hey, Niall’s brought some new friends who seem pretty great – just got to stay positive, Lou.”

Liam is such a good person.

“Yeah, man,” Zayn says. “And there are a shitload of strangers here you can deflower in the bathroom, we all know how you like that.”

Liam is a good person, and Zayn doesn’t deserve him at all.  

“You’re an asshole,” Louis tells him.

Zayn shoots him a shit eating grin.

Louis shoves himself from the booth as indignantly as he can manage and ignores the amused looks Liam and Zayn shoot him. “I’m getting drinks,” he says loudly, pointedly not looking in their direction. “I’ll be back.”

“Grab me one, will ya?” Zayn calls as Louis walks away.

Louis’ responding gesture speaks for itself.

Niall finds him at the bar, just as Louis is embracing his very large glass of sangria. He smells like sweat and beer and all the jolly things Niall always smells like. It only gets worse when he lifts his arm, exposing his pits to the world as he drapes his arm over Louis’ shoulders.

Louis first through is to save the liquor. He sets his glass down zero-point-five seconds before Niall’s weight knocks him off balance.

“Louis!” Niall roars. “I haven’t seen you in a fucking age, mate!”

Louis wriggles his way free of the smelly, sweaty arm (ignoring his automatic impulse to snuggle closer because Niall gives the best fucking hugs) and leans back. His first move is to get his drink safely back in his hands, the second to turn and consider the girl Niall has dragged along with him.

She’s pretty. Her hair is kind of blonde and kind of brunette and she has the most impressive set of eyebrows that Louis’ seen outside the limits of Zayn’s stupid face. The off-balance Irishman hanging off her shoulders doesn’t seem to bother her at all – which is impressive – and there’s a sweet little smile playing at the corner of her lips when she looks at him.

The dimples that spring up when she smiles are instantly endearing.

“This is Gems,” Niall says proudly. “Gems, this is Lou.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

Louis toasts his glass to her before taking a sip. “Is that your Christian name, then?” Louis checks. “Gems?”

“Gemma,” she clarified. “Gemma Anne, if you’re lucky.”

Louis wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Gemma Anne.”

She wiggles her perfect eyebrows right back. “Cheeky,” she says.

“Oi—!” Niall interrupts them, looking delighted. “Quit flirting with ma woman,” he orders.

“ _Your_ woman?” Gemma echoes, eyebrows high.

Niall just winks at her. Before Louis can even think to react, he catches Louis under his arm again. This time some of Louis’ drink does spill over the side, the fruity, _expensive_ liquid sloshing all over his hand.

Louis isn’t even remotely ashamed of the outraged shriek he releases; even when it catches the attention of several of the bar’s other patrons.

“Niall, you _fucking_ twat!” he screeches.

Gemma throws her head back and laughs.

“Okay, I like you,” she declares loudly.

Niall nuzzles closer to Louis, scratching his hair against Louis’ neck. “My girlfriend likes you Lou,” he sings.

For a second, Louis’ consumed with the spillage – that amount of spilled liquid _has_ to have been at least two pounds worth, and if any of it got on his shirt he’ll fucking _flip_ – but he finds it in him to be glad. He quite likes her too.

He’s heard about Gemma before actually. When Niall had met her, she’d been the only thing he spoke about for days. She’s been his faceless, posh girlfriend for around two months now – and it’s only Louis’ very busy schedule and very shitty ability to keep in touch that has prevented them from meeting before this.

He hasn’t seen Niall in about two months, actually. Louis’ been a bit on the wild side lately, which didn’t quite mesh with Niall’s newfound domestic bliss.

It was good though. It was so good. If anyone deserved domestic bliss, it was Niall fucking Horan.

“You should come to our party,” Niall says. He waves down the bartender with the hand draped over Gemma’s shoulders, and then swings them both around to face Louis again. “We’re having a party.”

“Are you?” Louis says. He raises a brow and ignores the part of him that feels a little slighted at not knowing about this already.

The couple nod their heads in tandem. “We’re doing it at my flat,” Gemma says, “cause Niall’s is a fucking mess.”

Niall makes an indignant noise. “I didn’t hear you complaining last nig—”

He doesn’t even finish before Gemma is interrupting him. “—I wasn’t exactly focusing on the floor last night, _babe_ ,” she says.

Niall flushes tellingly.

Gemma’s smirking when she looks back to Louis. “You should definitely come,” she says. “To the party, I mean. Apparently this one—” she nods her head in Niall’s direction with a fond roll of her eyes, “—misses your face, or whatever. You’re the only thing he’s been talking about for weeks, mate.”

Louis considers her solemnly. “Better get used to that now,” he advises her. “Nialler’s always been a little obsessed – and well, who can blame him?”

Niall lifts his hand, spreads his palm and mashes it into the side of Louis’ face. Of course, more of Louis’ drink spills.

“Goddamnit, Horan!”

**.**

“Liam,” Louis says a few days later. “Would you fuck me wearing this?”

Liam grimaces a little, but he’s too polite to ignore Louis’ politely. There’s a tight smile on his face as he considers Louis’ outfit – the tightest skinny jeans Louis owns and a slutty wide neck t-shirt. The _‘is what’_ of his tattoo is peeking out.

“Isn’t it a bit weird if I answer that?” Liam asks after a beat.

Liam’s such a square.

Louis turns hopefully to Liam’s boyfriend. “Zayn?”

“Yeh, babes,” Zayn says, without even looking up. “Course, I would.”

Liam lets out a little indignant noise, but Louis ignores that for the sake of preening. If these clothes could get him _Zayn_ (albeit a distracted and very much already taken one) he should be able to get someone else easy.

“Who are you even trying to pull, anyway?” Liam asks, sounding a little sore – which isn’t fair, to be honest, because he’s the one Zayn’s all wrapped up in, it’s not like he’s got a _reason_ to be jealous – “We’re only going to _Niall_ /s.”

Louis lifts a pointed finger.

“Correction,” he says imperiously. “We’re going to Niall’s _and_ Gemma’s.” Technically, it was just Niall’s place, but the party was a shared event. “Apparently Gemma’s invited a shitload of her friends as well.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , Liam,” Louis says. “This isn’t just another one of Niall’s shitty little group things. This is a proper party. We’re essentially representing Niall’s social life – we’ve got to be _presentable_. What kind of boyfriend would Niall be if he didn’t have the coolest friends?”

Zayn snorts.

Louis ignores him.

“Uhm,” Liam says, slowly looking at Zayn and then back to Louis. “Bad ones?”

“Too right, my friend.”

“What about slutty friends?” Zayn always has to put his two cents in.

“I’m ignoring you,” Louis tells him. “Also, I’ve decided to embrace the word slut, and will henceforth be taking it as a compliment.”

Zayn snorts again.

“Uh, okay,” Liam says, after a moment. There’s an adorable little crease at his brow and the slightest downwards turn to his lips. He’s clearly decided that Louis’ onto something. “What – uh, what should we do then? For the party, I mean. I was just going in this?”

He looks worriedly down at himself. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and his favourite blue wash jeans – which would be unacceptable if it weren’t for the way his arms looked in the slim fit sleeves.

“We’re fine, babes,” Zayn hushes him.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Well, of _course_ you are,” he says. “You look like _you._ You’re always fine. And you’re fine too,” he motions vaguely to Liam’s biceps and then scoffs when Liam’s eyes light up earnestly.

He turns back to the mirror. “Which leaves me,” he says.

“Relax,” Zayn says, finally setting his book away and looking up. He considers Louis properly this time, before he nods his head decisively. “You look great, and you love parties like these. It’s going to be great.”

Louis nods his head decisively.

Yes, he thinks. Of course.

It’s going to be great. 

.

It is not great.

In fact, it’s actually a steaming fucking pile of very, very bad and it has been since the second that Gemma appeared from the kitchen – trailed by a very tall, very attractive and very _familiar_ boy and said, “Hey everyone, this is my little brother, Harry.”

Harry.

This is _so_ not great.

“Shit,” Louis hisses, ducking behind Liam (seriously, thank god for those shoulders) before Gemma’s even looked around the full room. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

Liam is naturally the worst and steps away, turning around and frowning down at him in concern. “Lou?” he says, sounding bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

The whole room turns to look at Louis.

Louis takes one long second to consider the thousands and thousands of varied and violent ways he’s going to make Liam pay for this – before straightening his back. He clears his throat as casually as he can, before glancing around the room.

“Sorry,” he says, “thought I saw a bee.”

“We’re inside,” Zayn says.

He’s going to kill Zayn too. He’ll do him and Liam in together, it’ll be poetic.

“I know,” Louis says. “That’s why I said _I thought_ I saw one.”

 _Shut your stupid chiselled jaw,_ Louis thinks at him furiously and it kind of works – because Zayn just peers at him suspiciously for a moment before turning back to greet Niall.

As the attention shifts hesitantly back to their hosts, Louis has a choice to make. Keep staring at his feet like the fuck boy he’d make fun of Liam for being, or face up and look his one night stand in the eye.

His one night stand whose name he got wrong – the little brother of Louis’ best friend’s new girlfriend.

Louis takes a deep breath, grabs life by the balls and looks up.

He loses his gall not even a second later when he sees that _Harry_ is staring right back. All it takes is one look in those green eyes for him to be thrown right back to that night – to spreading himself across the mattress and closing his eyes and losing himself to –

Oh, god, did he call Harry ‘Henry’ while they were in the throes?

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

He looks back down almost immediately.

“I’m going to put these in the kitchen,” Louis squeaks. He and Liam and Zayn have brought some beers along in an effort to be halfway decent guests and get drunk faster – and taking them to the fridge is as good an excuse as any.

He flees.

There is a flaw, however, with this plan. Because the kitchen is empty. And secluded. And the sound of footsteps behind him suggest that he’s been followed.

He crouches to put the beers away, and two large feet appear at his side. Fuck, he thinks. Fucking, shitting, fuck.

(Harry’s shoes are fucking ridiculous, he also thinks, but now is really not the time.)

“You gonna stand up?” Harry asks. “Say hello?”

Louis focuses intently on the contents of Niall’s fridge. Every shelf is full of alcohol, save for the top one – which seems to have been reserved for several different types of cheese. He’s finished putting the beers away, so he really doesn’t have a good excuse for staying on crotch-level.

He is _better_ than this, damnit.

He stands up slowly.

“Hello,” Harrysays.

Louis stares resolutely at a spot just to the left of Harry’s ear.

“Uh,” Louis says. “Hi.”

There’s an absolutely wicked smirk playing at the corner of Harry’s lips, and Louis wants nothing to do with it. He certainly, _certainly_ doesn’t want to launch himself forward just so he can lick it off. Nope. Definitely not.

“Do you remember me?”

Louis resolutely does not think about that same, low voice inches from his ear _—“yeah, you like that, fucking look at you; you’re fucking desperate for it”_ — or the exquisite stretch in his thighs that had lingered for days after they’d been pressed over Harry’s shoulders.

“Uhm,” he says eloquently.

Harry leans closer, still smirking like a smug fucking bug in a rug. “You called me your boy,” he says.

Louis feels a bit faint. He probably hasn’t been drinking enough water. “Did I?” he says weakly.

The dimples make an appearance then, as Harry’s smirk grows into a proper grin. “Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “Then you called me Henry.”

 _Abort,_ Louis’ brain shrieks. _Abort mission_. 

“Everything alright in here?” Gemma pokes her head in the kitchen door. Her dimples are identical to her brothers, but Louis likes hers more. Hers seem kinder.

Harry doesn’t look away from Louis when he replies. “We’re fine.” He’s got creases at the corner of his eyes he’s enjoying this so much – and while one part (one _massive_ part) of Louis feels wholly indignant at that, another much wilder part kind of loves looking at that smile.

“Right,” Gemma says.

Louis shoots her a nervous smile and tries to get a handle on whatever his lungs have decided to do instead of regulate his breathing. “Yeah,” he says shakily. “Just putting the beers away.”

Louis pretends not to notice when Gemma looks pointedly at the closed fridge door.

“Okay, then,” Gemma says. “We’re gonna get a head start on the wine while we wait for everyone else to show up.” She glances between them for a second longer. “Come outside when you’re, uh, _finished_?”

Then she winks at Harry and disappears.

Louis takes it back. He hates both of them. Their dimples too.

“She likes you,” Harry says. He seems closer than he was seconds before. Close enough, at least, for Louis to smell his cologne, and _boy_ does that bring back some memories. 

“Does she?” Louis says weakly.

Harry makes a ‘ _mmhmm’_ noise and it comes out like a rumbling growl. Maybe this is how it feels in the jungle, Louis thinks wildly. Maybe this is how those little baby monkeys feel when they see a jaguar getting ready to pounce.

Those monkeys probably don’t see the jaguar and stop themselves from thinking about which part they’re going to rub up on first, Louis brain points out traitorously.

He feels his back gently hit the closed fridge door, as Harry crowds closer. One of his hands frames Louis’ head, holding him out while the other gently traces the spot where Louis’ sweater meets his jeans. “ _I_ like you,” he purrs.

Louis can’t really breathe.

“Do you?” Louis’ voice barely more than a whisper now – but he doesn’t need to be louder because Harry’s literally an inch away. Louis can feel the hot puff of his breath as he breathes out, pressing closer and closer until his lips dust over Louis’.

Harry’s hand pushes forward in the final seconds, pressing past the hem of Louis’ shirt and grasping Louis’ hip. It’s hot, Harry’s skin is practically burning and it’s ultimately what snaps Louis out of it.

“Rules!” Louis screeches hastily, shoving Harry away. He does a weird sort of pirouette, flinging himself half way across the kitchen before he spins around to look at Harry accusingly. “We need rules!”

Harry pouts at him. “Rules?”

God, his bottom lip is practically _begging_ to be bitten.

“Yes!” Louis says shrilly. There’s a very good chance he’s panicking. “You’re Gemma’s brother and Niall’s my best friend and they’ve got a really good thing going on that we are not going to fuck up for them! Nope! I’m making some rules.”

“Rules,” Harry says. This time he sounds very put out.

“Stop saying ‘rules’!” Louis yells.

For a second they just stare at each other. Louis’ breathing a little too hard (far harder than their very light petting warrants, at least), his hearts fighting its way out of his throat and the spot where Harry’s hand had grabbed him still feels red hot. Harry, for his part, is a little too red in the face to be completed unflustered – but Louis’ too focused on the amused smile he’s got on his face to pay that much thought.

“I’m not joking,” he says after a few silent moments. “We — Gemma and Niall’s thing is, it’s important and, and — ”

And Louis’ not going to be the one that messes that up. Harry was a great (fantastic, amazing, best night of Louis’ life probably) shag, but he was only that. They’d met at a nightclub, for fucks sake, so clearly Harry wasn’t looking for anything too serious.

“Alright,” Harry interrupts. That stupid smile is still on his face, but it’s gentler now, like maybe he can tell that Louis’ struggling to find the right words. “I get it.”

Louis looks at him, startled. “You do?”

Harry nods. “Sure,” he says. “You don’t want to mess around.”

Louis would like to mess around. Harry’s dimples are pretty much calling Louis’ name at this point – but it’s about more than that. Louis’ never been able to do casual very well – and if he was faced with the temptation of being able to have someone like Harry every day?

It would end. It would end, and it would get awkward – and for the rest of their lives they’d have to avoid each other whenever Niall and Gemma wanted to do anything.

“I just,” Louis says, his voice dropping to a much calmer tone. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Harry nods. They’re both quiet for a minute, letting a kind of tentative silence take control as Louis forces his brain to stop panicking. This is okay, its fine. It’ll be fine.

“Alright then,” Harry says, pushing himself away from the counter after a second. His smile is suddenly overwhelmingly bright. “The last thing I’d want to do is make you uncomfortable, and I totally understand where you’re coming from.”

“Really?”

Louis kind of feels like _he_ doesn’t even understand where he’s coming from. A very indignant part of his brain is demanding that Louis just disregard the last five minutes and mount Harry right then and there.

But Harry’s smile is nothing if not understanding. “Course,” he says, like it’s nothing at all. “Hey, do you want a drink?”

Casual as anything, Harry grabs two glasses and reaches for some of the wine left on the bench. He ignores the first few and pulls out one from the back. “Gems bought this one from France, I’ve just been waiting for an excuse to ‘accidentally’ open it – you should absolutely have some, it’s going to be delicious.”

His dimples make another appearance when he turns to grin at Louis in askance, and Louis gets a very distinct feeling that staying away from Harry is going to be an incredibly steep uphill battle.

.

This is all Eleanor’s fault, Louis decides the next day.

“This is all your fault,” he says as they sit down for coffee.

(The rest of the party had gone alright, all things considered. Harry was clearly already best pals with Niall, and it only took him mere seconds to sway Liam and Zayn to his side. Gemma’s friends were all pretty great though, and she and Niall were centre-stage the entire night – so Louis’ awkwardness went wholly unnoticed.)

“I’m sure you’re right, love,” Eleanor clucks, reaching out for the menu with one hand and patting Louis’ hand with the other. She soothes her fingers over her knuckles. “What are we talking about?”

Louis shoots her a withering look.

“Harry,” he says meaningfully.

“Who?”

Louis’ wrenches his hands away from her to throw them up in the air. “Harry!” He says, letting the frustration bubble over. “Harry, Henry — I don’t know! The guy from the club!”

Louis hasn’t told anyone about Harry, so it’s not that surprising that Eleanor looks confused. Her face lights up, however, at the mention of the club.

“Oh!” she says. “From _Jiggles?_ ”

This is absolutely Eleanor’s fault.

“The club was called _Jiggles?”_ Louis says, scandalised.

One of Eleanor’s stupidly perfect eyebrows quirks up a little, mocking him. “Dude, there was a massive neon sign on the door,” she smirks.

Louis splutters. “What!?” he says indignantly.

“And on the wall,” Eleanor continues, merciless. “I think there was even something printed on the dance floor.”

And, like.

That may very well be true. After all, it’s not like Louis had been paying attention to the floor while he’d been dancing (read: grinding.) And it’s not like Louis had looked at the doors when he’d left – he’d been too preoccupied with the finger sucking thing. 

“What?” Eleanor says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Were you distracted by something?”

His silence is damning, apparently, and Eleanor starts to laugh.

“You know what?” Louis says, after a long and humiliating second of Eleanor’s giggles. “Maybe it is my fault. What was I expecting following you lot to a club called _Jiggles_?”

Eleanor leans forward and balances her head in her hands. There’s a devious smile on her lips when she says, “so, who’s Harry?” She even sings it a little, just to rub it in.

“Ugh,” Louis says. “ _Shut_ up.”

Eleanor’s smile doesn’t waver, but she does let the issue drop. She takes a long sip from her coffee before leaning forward again, this time with a much more merciful (read: pathetic) look on her face. “How about this?” she offers. “Me and the girls were going to go out again this weekend – you could come with?”

Louis frowns. “How is drinking _more_ going to help?” he demands.

Eleanor leans back and shrugs, lifting the coffee cup and swirling it through the air – probably in a bid to stir the liquid inside.

She shrugs. “It’ll be a good time” she says, “and who knows – it might even take your mind off Ha— _him_.” She grins wickedly.

“You’re the worst,” he says.

(She’s actually the best, but he’s not going to tell her that.)

.

It takes Louis about half an hour on Saturday night to get absolutely _sloshed_.

Zayn and Liam had abstained from the evening out, claiming date night was far more important than getting out on the town. It was understandable, perhaps because they were in a long term, monogamous relationship, but that didn’t mean Louis’ had to be happy about it.

“They’re traitors,” Louis whines into Niall’s incredibly smelly neck. “Useless, rotten, good for nothing traitors.”

Gemma, who’s sitting opposite Louis and clearly trying very hard not to laugh, smirks. “That was surprisingly eloquent,” she says.

Niall brings his hand up to pat Louis’ hair. “Oh, he’ll always surprise ya,” he laughs.

“Damn right I will,” Louis mumbles.

Niall and Gemma aren’t really ‘ _out_ ’ out either. When Louis had invited them the day before, they’d agreed to come out for a drink or two. The truth was that they’d probably call it a night in a few minutes, and head back home to cuddle or something.

 _God,_ Louis thinks. _Couples_.

His slightly bitter mood has nothing at all to do with the fact that he’s been single for almost nine months now. He hadn’t been abstinent for that long – _eugh,_ his brain shudders at the thought – but it had been a long while since he’d had a good cuddle for cuddlings sake.

“You guys are so fucking lame,” Louis says.

Gemma’s eyebrows climb ever higher. “That was surprisingly out of the blue,” she replies lightly.

“Does that too,” Niall says.

Louis leaves them a few minutes later, imparting with them only his best smile and a monster hickey on Niall’s neck (‘ _Ow—! Jesus fuck, Lou!’_ Niall had said, while Gemma laughed uproariously) that he’s incredibly proud of.

Eleanor and her friends have been on the dance floor since their second round of drinks. They haven’t faltered yet, which is actually incredibly impressive because they’ve been enthusiastically grinding on strangers for almost forty minutes now. Louis’ hasn’t seen that kind of effort since he turned eighteen and figured that if he moved his arse a specific way he’d get free drinks from the older blokes at the bar.

Which, now that he thinks about it, is still a pretty foolproof way to get free drinks.

He runs a hasty hand through his hair and throws back the rest of his drink.

The next two hours kind of blend into a wonderful blur of bad Taylor Swift remixes and fruity flavoured drinks. He does get a few free drinks as well, from increasingly seedy guys as the night progresses. Two separate gentlemen flag the bartender down while Louis’ dancing – who tells Louis when he comes to get another drink that it’s all been paid for.

“Compliments of that fella over there,” the bartender says, motioning to the corner.

The bartender is a skinny little thing probably a first year who hasn’t figured out how _shit_ night shifts are when you’re studying. He’s rude, and pretty condescending when he passes the message along – but Louis’ still ten thousand percent more likely to take him home, than either of the ‘gentlemen’ paying for his drinks.

He cheers them anyway, and pretends he can’t see Eleanor shooting them a death glare from over his shoulder. (That girl could be ten shots in and still furiously defensive of old men buying other people free drinks.)

When the girls decide they’re sick of the first club they move on to the next – and that’s all it takes to keep the night alive. They drink and they dance and they bond and Louis thinks he really, really needs more single lady friends because this is the _best._ He and Zayn used to have a good time (before he and Liam decided to shun themselves from society and live as hermits) but Louis’ pretty sure he hasn’t had a night this good since –

Well, since the night Harry took him to pound town, to be honest.

“Ew—gross!” Eleanor shrieks. “ _Pound town_? Really?!”

Whoops, Louis thinks. Did he say that out loud?

“ _YES!_ ” Eleanor half yells, half laugh. “You _did,_ you fucking freak.”

Behind her, one of her friends breaks out into a stirring rendition of Timmy Trumpet’s song of the same name, which immediately distracts them both. Louis drops like Beyoncé taught him, shaking his arse while Eleanor starts to ‘whip her hair back and forth.’

After a second or two, she gets dizzy.

“Oh, god,” she says, straightening and pressing her palm to her forehead. “Oh, god, stop, stop, stop – I’m gonna throw up.”

Louis takes a huge and hasty step back.

Eleanor shoots him a withering glare.

“You alright?” Eleanor’s Timmy Trumpet impersonator asks, crowding closer. She settles her hand on Eleanor’s back soothingly and Louis thinks that’s probably the definition of friendship.

Eleanor thinks about it for a second, sway precariously – alcohol or nausea, Louis can’t really tell. But she recovers quickly, perking up with a determined look on her face.

“I changed my mind,” she says, “I’m hungry, let’s go find food.”

It’s an abrupt change, and ordinarily Louis would comment, but all the words really do it remind him that he’s pretty peckish as well. The other girls feel exactly the same way, if the sudden enthusiastic groans of agreement are anything to go by. 

Unfortunately, it is around three in the morning by then – so they don’t have many options. In fact, there’s really only one.

“To Tescos!” he shouts when they break free of the club. The cold air is like a sudden smack in the face, and as quickly as he’d thrown his arms out in enthusiasm he retracts them.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” he hisses, folding in on himself, crossing his arms across his chest and rubbing at his bare arms. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stands on end, as goosebumps break out all over. “It’s fucking _freezing_.”

“We are in _London_ after all,” one of Eleanor’s friends says primly.

“Yes, thank you for that,” Louis says.

Eleanor shoots him a look that clearly says, ‘ _be nice._ ’ God, she’s such a terrible drunk.

Louis’s thoughts linger on that as they wander down the street. They adapt to the cold fairly quickly – but they _are_ in London, after all, so they only have to walk a few blocks to get to the nearest Tescos.

But the world’s always throwing punches and sometimes Louis’ just got to roll with it.

“Oh, my god,” Louis says, “stop, everyone stop!”

Eleanor stops the girls in half a second, turning around with wide and worried eyes. “What?” she says urgently. “What is it?!”

God, she freaks out over the littlest things.

Louis shoots her an incredulous look and lifts a pointed finger. “Pizza truck,” he says.

“Oh, my fucking god, Louis, I thought you were hurt—!”

By the time Eleanor’s started snapping at him, Louis’ already turning and walking away. “Anyone else want some?” he calls over his shoulder, “ladies?”

A few of Eleanor’s friends giggle but none of them move to follow. Probably too caught up in one of Eleanor’s death stares to move. It’s a good thing Louis’ _impervious_ to her particular brand of stern punishment. He’s getting some pizza.

“Louis, we were going to get Tescos!”

“I’ll meet you there!”

It’s not like it’s a long walk or anything. He can see the bright sign of the shop, across the road and only about fifty metres down from the pizza truck. And the street’s pretty crowded, anyway. There’s a fairly significant line for the pizza, a couple of people smoking out the front of a nearby pub and the late night Tesco shoppers. He has to wait for two cars to pass before he crosses the road – so he’s not worried.

And god, it’s worth it.

“This is literally the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life,” Louis says to absolutely no one.

He’d splurged and paid an extra three pounds for two of the double cheese slices. The first bite is hot, and kind of burns his throat when he swallows, but it’s cheesy and tomato-y and god it’s so, so good.

He meanders back to the Tescos, devoting ninety percent of his thoughts to the pizza on his way. He sits on the kerb when he gets there, instead of going inside, and gets started on the second slice.

But the second slice isn’t quite as good as the first. The cheese seems a little more like plastic, now that he’s not quite as hungry. And he hadn’t quite realised how sore his legs were until he’d sat down. In fact, most of him is sore, he realises. His arms, and his shoulders and his back – and fuck, even his head is kind of throbbing. It hurts to look at the bright white light from Tescos, as well.

It’s easy to close his eyes from there. He rolls onto his back and pulls his feet away from the road, and lifts his hand up behind his head.

It’s pretty fucking trashy – but it’s only til the girls get back. Just to get his energy back.

“Uh, Louis?” a tentative voice says.

But hey, Louis totally remembers that voice. He remembers deep, throaty moans actually, and soft whispers and ‘you called me _your boy_.’

Shit.

“You do realise your pillow is a slice of pizza, right?” 

When Louis’ eyes snap open, Harry’s face is far too close for comfort. Beautiful as ever, to be sure – his curls brushed stylishly away from his face and his dimples out in full force - but far, far too close.

There’s a very good chance that Louis’ got a bit of pineapple in his ear.

“Harry,” Louis says, quickly sitting up and trying to act normal. The pineapple comes with him as he moves, and he delicately plucks it away while avoiding Harry’s eye. “Lovely to see you, as always.”

“And you,” Harry says, his eyes sparkling.

Louis does his best to brush his pants off. He’s not sure if he’s got dirty all over his back, but trying to sort that out now leads nowhere good. Harry’s seen Louis doing his sexy dance he doesn’t need to have that image ruined right away.

“Are you having a good evening?” Louis asks, dusting off his knees.

Harry nods, his smile reaching all the way up to his eyes. “It’s much better now,” he says.

“Did you get some pizza too?” Louis asks, enthusiastically. “Man, it’s so good.”

Harry looks entertained. “Not yet,” he says. “I’ll have to try some.”

It’s a lapse of judgement, what happens next. Louis _know_ s this. He understands. But that doesn’t stop him.

“Want some of mine?” He thrusts his squashed, half eaten slice out in Harry’s direction with a bright smile.

Then he realises what he’s done. Oh, _god._ Some part of his brain is screaming at him, from beneath the thick haze of alcohol, _you idiot, you fucking idiot_ , but the alcohol silences it. He’s just being nice, Louis thinks.

He and Harry stare at the pizza slice for a moment. As Louis peers closer, he can see that some of his hair as gotten stuck in the cheese.

“Uh,” Harry says. “Sure?”

He and Harry wait a moment longer. Very, very slowly – Harry leans forward and takes a small bite of the gross, squashed and hairy pizza. He chews, a grimace marring his delicate features for a second, before he slowly swallows.

Louis stares at him.

“I’m pretty sure that had hair in it,” Louis says.

Harry nods. “Yup,” he says, “I’m pretty sure too.”

He reaches into his mouth and sticks out his tongue. For a second he appears to be struggling, before he pulls something out of his mouth. Louis’ hair.

Louis’ _hair_.

God, that is fucking _disgusting_.

“Louis?”

Harry and Louis both jump, as Eleanor and her friends trail out of the store. They’re laid down with all sorts of chocolates, and a few of those cute little sandwiches. Eleanor’s looking warily at Harry, like he’s another predator off the streets.

Harry clearly notices. He clears his throat a little awkwardly. “Well,” he says, “it was good to see you, Lou.” _Lou?_ “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He leans forward, presses a quick kiss to Louis’ cheek, and then vanishes.

Louis stands still for a few moments afterward, his pizza hand still outstretched. Eleanor’s friends are chatting amongst themselves, but Eleanor steps a little closer to Louis. She drops her arm over his shoulder.

“Harry?” she guesses.

Louis nods. His head feels light and his voice, when he speaks, is hoarse. “Yup,” he says. “ _Harry_.”

.

Louis wakes up about as humiliated as is appropriate.

His hair. He’d forced Harry to eat his _hair._ And what Louis’ sure was a veritable cocktail for germs and diseases from where the pizza had been pressed into the sidewalk.

He can never leave the house _again_.

(He’s got work in a few hours though, which means that is clearly not an option. Goddamnit.)

“Tea?” Liam offers, when Louis drags his sick and sore body into the kitchen.

“Wanna punch me in the face, instead?”

Liam, who had been holding out a steaming mug of what smells like Earl Grey, slowly retracts his arm. He’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and some old pyjama plans and a sweet little crease in his brow. “ _Uhhhhhh_ ,” he says, with adorable wide eyes. “No?”

He goes to put the tea down, tilting the cup towards the sink.

Louis hisses in immediate protest. “Wait, no—!” Louis takes a hasty step forward because it actually smells amazing and his throat kind of hurts so teas probably not a bad idea.

Liam hesitantly passes the tea over.

“So,” he says, slowly sitting down. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Louis sits opposite him, places the tea delicately to the side and then drops his face to the table. More enthusiastically than he’d planned as well, so his head thumps solidly into the wood.

Zayn chooses that precise moment to enter the kitchen. He’s got what looks like Liam’s boxers on, and his thick framed glasses. Liam’s dimples show up almost immediately, and if Louis wasn’t holding his head and groaning in pain he would be almost endeared.

Then Zayn goes ahead and ruins it, taking one look at Louis’ sorry state before he starts to laugh.

“You’re a fucking sadist,” Louis moans, the pounding in his head increasing threefold.

Zayn hums cheerfully as he reaches to switch on the coffee machine. “You’re a fucking moron,” he sings back.

Liam, for his part, looks oddly pleased. “Good mood, babe?” He reaches out a hand to graze the small of Zayn’s back in some horrible long term relationship gesture.

Zayn hums again, and moves a little closer. The coffee machine hisses as he leans over and kisses the top of Liam’s head. “Good night,” he corrects Liam, with a sly wink.

“Ew,” Louis says. “Ew, ew—gross.” He vaguely considers banging his head on the table again. “Please stop,” he pleads.

Zayn pulls away, but he looks insufferably smug. Liam’s face is a little gentler.

“So how was last night?” he asks.

Louis’ pretty sure Liam might already have his suspicions about how last night went, but he catches them up anyway. Zayn and Liam picked up on Louis’ thing for Harry almost the second after Niall and Gemma’s party – but they still weren’t up to date on the meeting that had come beforehand.

Louis’ holding off on that, actually, because he knows exactly how much shit Zayn will give him.

Not that censoring the story really helps in that regard anyway.

“You were sleeping on the footpath?” Zayn’s nose scrunches up in disgust.

“Not _sleeping_ ,” Louis says indignantly. “Just kind of, you know, resting.”

“Jesus Christ.” 

If that’s how he reacts to lying down on the pavement, Louis thinks, Zayn is certainly not going to like the rest of this story.

Sure enough, he looks more and more horrified as Louis tries to explain. By the time Louis gets to the part when Harry pulled Louis’ hair from his mouth, he looks vaguely green. The skin at the corner of Liam’s eyes is pulling, the way it always does when he’s doing his absolute best not to look pitying.

Louis’ not usually this terrible with boys, is the thing. Usually he’s suave and he’s clever and he can seduce even the straightest of college boys if he tries hard enough.

Now? Only one thing is sure. Harry can reduce Louis to a hot and fairly disgusting mess in the blink of an eye, and there’s nothing Louis can do about it.

It’s just – it’s hard to explain, alright? It all sounds incredibly stupid – and yeah, Louis can admit that most of it is, because he’s never been very good under pressure especially not where pretty boys are concerned - but it doesn’t feel as silly as it sounds.

Louis likes Harry. Sure, the obscene red lips and sweet dimples had captured Louis’ interest, but suddenly it’s like, like more than that? Louis would really like to know what Harry’s favourite book is, and what he’s studying and what his best birthday present ever was. He wants to know if Harry watches the Bake Off, or if he’s more of a Masterchef man. Or, like, if he’d be happy to cuddle under a blanket and watch one of those David Attenborough shows.

And Louis hasn’t fucking done that before, so it’s fine that he’s a little terrified.

He doesn’t even let himself think about Niall and Gemma and all the other shit that could go wrong here.

Besides, does it really matter? After last night, Louis’ got a pretty definitive answer regarding the future of their relationship and it’s not bright. How’s he supposed to date someone he can never look in the eye again?

“I don’t get it,” Zayn says.

“What?” Louis is startled from his thoughts.

“I don’t get it,” Zayn repeats himself. “Like, what’s so different about him? He’s a cool guy, but why don’t you just hook up and get him out of your system.”

Louis scowls. “ _Excuse you_ , _Zayn_ —” he begins indignantly.

“No, he’s right,” Liam interrupts. “That’s what you always do.”

Louis splutters and swings his gaze to Liam, scandalised. “Hey— _fuck_ you—!”

“Do you like him?” Zayn says over him (and honestly, did their mothers never teach them _any_ manners?)

The question does stop Louis in his tracks though. This time, his widened eyes are less about his slighted dignity – they’ve got more of a ‘deer in the headlights’ kind of feel. “What?” he says.

“Oh, my god.”

“Holy shit.”

“You _like_ him?!”

This is all moving incredibly quickly. Louis looks quickly between Zayn and Liam – who both look like Christmas has come early which is a bit insulting, honestly. He doesn’t have time to linger on that though, too caught up in trying to figure out what he can say.

“No—what?!” he says hastily. “What, no. Uh, no, you, I—”

“Oh, my god, Louis,” Liam says again. “You’re a real boy.”

Louis gives up, and huffs out a heavy breath. “Don’t make fun of me,” he whines. “I’m tired and I’m hung over and I’ve never done this before, I don’t know how this works.”

“What?” Zayn says, smirking. “Sex?”

Louis shoots him an icy glare. “No,” he says, and fuck you very much, Zayn. “ _Liking_ someone, it’s – it’s new, okay?! I’ve spent the last three years by myself, I’m a lone wolf! How am I supposed to handle a guy like that – he’s, he’s got all these tattoos and he’s a really good fucking kisser and like, have you seen how tall he is?!”

Liam clucks. “He’s really not that tall,” he says.

Zayn is a little shrewder. “Wait, you’ve slept with him?”

Oh.

Whoops.

“Uhhh,” Louis says.

“Louis!” Liam hisses.

It seems the jig is up. “It was only once!” Louis whines. “Or – like, more than once but it was only one night!”

“You’ve only met him once!” Liam sounds far too scandalised for someone who’s lived with Louis so long. This really shouldn’t be a surprise.

“How was it?” Zayn asks, his grin wicked.

Liam swats him in the arms. “Zayn!”

“So goooood,” Louis whines, dropping his head to the table again. “Zayn, he was so good you have no idea.”

At this, Liam frowns and puffs his chest out a little. “Hey,” he says. “I think he _clearly_ has some idea.”

Zayn shushes him.

“I think I hate him,” Louis says to Zayn, as both of them ignore Liam’s wildly put out face. “He’s so confusing and pretty, I can’t handle it. And it was so awkward last night, you wouldn’t even believe it, it’s like being in a drama on the telly.”

“Like a CW drama,” Zayn checks, “or like HBO?”

“Oh, my god,” Louis exclaims wildly. He’s just has an epiphany. “He’s my Mr. Big!” He looks at Zayn with wide and terrified eyes. “He’s all sexy and mysterious and vague only he slept with me straight away just so I’d know what I’m missing!”

“Jesus Christ,” says Zayn.

“Pretty sure Carrie slept with Mr. Big straight away as well,” Liam says. He still sounds a little sore from before.  

“Ugh,” Louis says. “Of course you watch Sex in the City.”

Liam splutters indignantly. “You just—! You just said - you watch it too!” He says.

Zayn, who had scoffed so loudly in Louis’ direction, only smiles at Liam fondly. If possible, he looks more endeared than usual.

“Ugh,” Louis groans, pushing himself away from the table. His tea is finished now, so there’s no reason he should put up with this. And he shouldn’t be expected to think about Harry, either. It’s far too exhausting, and Louis doesn’t have that kind of emotional capacity. “I’m going back to bed.”

Repression’s always been the way to go.

**.**

“We’re having a picnic!” Niall announces, bursting through Louis’ door on day three of his wallow-fest.

“Fuck off we are,” Louis says into his pillow.

Niall doesn’t even hesitate. He launches himself across the room and throws his whole body onto Louis’, flattening him into the mattress and blowing a wet raspberry on the back of Louis’ neck.

“ _Erhhck_!” Louis’ screeches.

“Don’t fight it,” Niall says, as Louis throws his body around. He can’t move his hands, his limbs all wrapped up in the sheets and blankets he’d been snuggling in – so the only thing he can do is buck his hips and hope it dislodges him.

It doesn’t work. Niall stays exactly where he is, just reaches his hand out to stroke Louis’ face. “ _Shhhhhh_ ,” he continues. “Just let it happen.”

“You are the fucking worst,” Louis snarls.

“I am having a fucking picnic,” Niall corrects him.

Louis stops to think at that – mostly because he’s so wrapped up, and Niall’s so heavy, that he can’t do anything else. Niall’s having a picnic, his brain says to him. Niall is having a _picnic_.

“Wait,” Louis says, “a picnic?”

Niall nods. Louis can’t really turn his head, but the thirty percent of Niall’s face that Louis can see looks wickedly proud. “A _motherfucking_ picnic,” he says.

The facts are these: Niall, caught up in the middle of a hilariousbet with Gemma (“— _so I told_ her _that there was no way she could think of better dates than I could, I’m the fucking best at dates_ —”), had planned their next date for the park. He’d found a projector from one of the guys in his musicology class, and had stolen some speakers from his brother to set up an elaborate evening viewing of The Lion King.

“I wanted it to be the Terminator,” Niall says forlornly, “but it’s a public park and we didn’t want anyone to complain about scary movies – besides, everyone loves the Lion King.”

That’s true. Louis _loves_ the Lion King.

After they’d decided on the movie, Gemma and Niall had also decided to invite a few other people.

“We figured we’d make a night of it,” Niall finishes grandly. “And you are coming.”

Louis smushes his face further into the pillows and groans. “ _No_ ooooo,” he whines.

Unsurprisingly, this tactic does not work. That weekend, Louis finds himself at the park, picnic rug under one arm and a huge bottle of red wine under the other.

“Oh, damn,” Liam says from behind him. “They brought food, we should have brought food!”

Opposite them, Harry is sitting with Gemma and Niall, passing out those little triangle sandwiches Louis’ Nan likes so much.

“S’alright, babe,” Zayn coos. “We can order pizza or summat.”

Liam grins that stupid grin of his that pulls lines at the corner of his eyes – and of course, Zayn’s face softens immediately. They gaze at each other, and it only takes about a second and a half before Louis has to look away from _that_ particular train wreck. He spins around, throws out the rug and settles it on the grass.

“We’re sitting here,” he announces.

“Oh,” Liam says, and the love-sick gazing stops just long enough for him to look uncomfortable. “Uh, sorry, Lou — we were, uh — ”

“We’re going to sit over there,” Zayn interrupts smoothly, “so we can make out when the movie starts.”

Liam goes a little pink at that, but still manages to look quite pleased with himself. Louis can’t even begrudge him for it, either, because it’s exactly what Louis would be doing if the situation was reversed.

Louis flops back onto the picnic mat and sighs.

“See ya, bro,” Zayn says.

Louis’ not sure exactly how long he stays there, staring up at the slightly unhealthy looking trees above him. The sun is setting and there’s a slight breeze – but it’s not cold enough that Louis can properly complain. He’s got a pretty warm sweater on, anyway.

“You look cold,” a voice says from above him. “You want my jacket?”

Louis pauses.

On the one hand, that voice clearly belongs to Harry. And Louis would really like to wear Harry’s jacket. It’s much bigger than Louis’ sweater and he’s not actually that cold but like, he remembers how good Harry smells, okay? And it’s probably warm and snuggle and – and –

This is a bad idea.

This is the same Harry that saw Louis having a snooze on a piece of pizza, just a few minutes before Louis fawned all over him. And, you know, ate some of Louis’ hair pizza.

(Oh god, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, Louis cringes.)

Besides, Louis’ not even cold.

Louis slowly sits up again, and smiles primly. “No thank you,” he says.

Harry’s got the same smile he had on his face during the entire pizza incident. Drunk!Louis hadn’t quite been able to decipher it, but sober Louis can read it loud and clear. The corners of Harry’s mouth are amused, the pull of his lips are trying not to laugh and there’s something in the wideness of his eyes that feels a little too close to pity for that to be comforting.

Louis brings his knees up (and god, he’s literally assuming the upright foetal position – is this what he has been reduced to?) and rests his chin on his hands.

“Can I sit?” Harry asks.

“Uhhm,” Louis says.

Harry sits.

“So,” he says in that horribly slow voice of his. “Have you recovered from Saturday night?”

Louis flushes hotly and stares at his feet. “ _Yup_ ,” he says. He pops the ‘p’ before he can even stop himself, and cringes instantly. God, as if Harry doesn’t think he’s weird enough already. “Uhm,” he stumbles a little, “I’m good as new.”

Harry looks at him oddly, his face a gentle mixture of bewildered and amused.

Louis fights the urge to bury his face in his hands, and smiles. He feels like he’s been shoved, knocked off balance and now he’s hanging in midair – suspended in that moment right between standing and falling.

It’s a really gross feeling.

“That’s good,” Harry says quietly. “I’m glad.”

Louis smiles uncomfortably – and he should really know better by now because that has never been a smile he’s been able to carry. He feels the skin pull across his face into a distorted grimace.

Silence reigns for a moment. In the awkward few seconds that follow, Niall stands and begins to get the movie started. Looking around (or rather, looking anywhere but at Harry), Louis can see that they’ve been joined by a few more people. Some of Gemma’s friends have set up in the front, Gemma’s lounging on a rug right in the middle and Zayn and Liam are nicely secluded off to Louis’ left. Unwittingly, Louis has ended up at the back – which is good, Louis thinks morbidly, because it means no one will be watching when Harry crushes him in a few minutes.

“ _Did_ you want my jacket?” Harry interrupts Louis’ thoughts. He begins to shrug out of it before Louis has even answered. “You look a little funny.”

This time, Louis’ grimace is intentional. “Hey!” he frowns.

Harry’s cheeks turn an adorable pink, and his eyes widen. “Not like that!” he says hastily. “I meant funny ill, not _funny_ , funny.”

Louis raises a brow (and kudos to Eleanor for teaching him that particular trick.) “Oh,” he says, sarcasm coming through for him the way it always does. “ _Well_ then.”

Harry, still pretty and flushed, punches Louis gently in the arm. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists bashfully.

Louis’ endeared, of course he is, and for a second the smile on his face is one hundred percent genuine. He nudges Harry back, bumping his elbow against Harry’s. “Go on then,” he pushes. “Don’t stop there. You were just telling me how ill I look.”

Harry harrumphs. “You don’t look _ill_ ,” he whines – a half amused, half frustrated smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You just – you look off.”

It’s a bizarre thing to say, Louis thinks, because Harry’s only met him three times –and only once sober, which is a horrifying thought – so it’s not like he’s an expert on Louis’ behavioural patterns or anything. Louis doesn’t know what to say.

Harry doesn’t either, apparently. That or he just doesn’t feel compelled to say anything. He sits quietly where he is, and watches Louis with a curious (and, god, he almost looks nervous?) look in his eye.

It lasts for a second too long, and Louis’ opens his mouth just to break the fucking silence, for Christs sake, when—

“EVERYONE SHUTUP,” Niall’s dulcet tones break into their silent exchange. “THERE ARE A FEW RULES I WOULD LIKE TO GO OVER, BEFORE THE MOVIE BEGINS.”

“For fucks sake,” Louis mutters.

“LOUIS, I HEARD THAT,” Niall says loudly over him.

“No you fucking didn’t.” There’s no way that Niall could have heard – not with the large distance between them. It’s more likely that Niall saw Louis’ mouth moving and assumed the worse.

“EVERYONE TELL LOUIS TO SHUT UP,” he orders.

“SHUT-UP-LOUIS!!” The rest of their companions sing.

“This is the fucking worst,” Louis grumbles, and Harry begins to giggle.

He’s still laughing, in fact, five minutes later when Niall has finally finished outlining their self-imposed rules, but Louis doesn’t mind too much. While Niall had talked about the importance of maintaining a manageable noise level in a public place, Harry has lifted his jacket and draped it carefully over Louis’ shoulders. It was kind of hot with two layers on, but Louis didn’t move. More than warm his skin, the jacket ignited something a little more introspective. Harry had given Louis his jumper, Louis’ brain begins to calculate. Did that mean Louis might not have scared him off after all?

“AND FINALLY,” Niall concludes grandly (and incredibly loudly for someone who’d just been preaching about the virtues of noise control), “I’D LIKE FOR YOU ALL TO JOIN ME IN REMINDING GEMMA THAT SHE’S GOT THE GREATEST BOYFRIEND EVER, AND SHE SHOULD BE INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL.”

Gemma doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “Other way around, sweetcheeks.”

Everyone has a bit of a laugh then as everyone unites to tease Niall. ‘ _Sweetcheeks_!?’Gemma’s friends sing out gleefully.

Not at all subtly, Niall starts the movie over their enthused voices and ignores them.

It occurs to Louis, as their small crowd settles, that he’s probably stuck with Harry for the rest of the night now. Well, stuck isn’t the right word. It’s just that the suns gone down, and everyone has figured themselves out on their little picnic mats. There’s no time to rearrange themselves now – Harry’s on Louis’ mat, and he’ll be there til the film ends.

He doesn’t waste any time getting comfortable. He leans back on his elbows, reclining his whole body in a positively deadly display of abs and biceps. Now that his jackets off, Louis can see every little muscle in Harry’s arms when he moves. And fuck, just when Louis thinks he’s got himself under control, he remembers about Harry’s fucking tattoos.

It’s going to be a long night, he thinks. He leans back as well, and pillows his head on his arms.

They do remarkably well for the first half. Louis can’t quite stop himself humming along to the first few songs, but on the whole he keeps a firm lid on his musical theatre proclivities. He does his valiant best not to cry when Mufasa is killed and has successfully blinked away all the unshed tears by the time that ‘Hakuna Matata’ begins to play.

Harry is a glorious distraction throughout. He doesn’t say much, pretty content to sit quietly and watch the movie – but that doesn’t mean he’s not taking up all of Louis’ attention.

It’s all about the way he moves his body, you see. The way he yawns, throwing his head back and stretching out the obscene tendons in his long neck. And in the way he shifts on his elbows, when they clearly become uncomfortable. The lean muscles of his arms and torso are so, _so_ obvious under the thing fabric of Harry’s tee, and every time he moves – _god._

But there’s a little more to it than Louis perving.

Harry’s gaze is hot and determined and it sears into the back of Louis’ head. He can feel it on him, kind of see it out of the corner of his eyes. Harry’s looking at him. Harry’s _really, properly_ looking at him.

It gets really obvious around the scene when Nala shows up. The soft notes of ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ begin to play, and Louis literally can’t think of anything else.

_He’s looking at me, he’s looking at me, he’s looking at me._

It bubbles over and suddenly, Louis can’t make himself stay quiet.

His gaze darts over to Harry – who doesn’t even try to hide that he was staring, only grins a little wider. Louis’ mouth feels abruptly dry.

He has to say something.

“Did you know,” Louis whispers, breaking the fragile silence. “That when they originally did this song for the movie they had Timon and Pumba sing it?”

Naturally, he goes for the smallest of small talk. The trivia he’s learnt about The Lion King, after years of living with four little sisters, is absolutely endless. He can regale Harry with tidbits like this for the rest of the night if he has to.

“—like, you know the way they start it?” he continues. “It was like that the whole way through and when they showed Elton John he flipped out and like—”

The intricate details of what Elton John did next are lost, swallowed down when Harry – in what is possibly the smoothest move of the century – rolls swiftly to the side and presses his lips to Louis’.

Harry’s mouth is hot and wet and Louis lets out a muffled little squeak before he settles into it. Harry is kissing him, Harry is _kissing_ him—

And then Harry is not kissing him. No sooner than Louis has lifted his hand to touch Harry’s incredibly impressive jaw, than Harry had pulled away.

Louis does not make a pathetic little mewling noise. Absolutely not.

“Shit,” Harry says, rolling back and running a frantic hand through his hair. He’s wearing it loose today, so the long curls don’t do as they’re told and flops back into his face within seconds. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “fuck, I – I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Uhhh,” Louis says, eloquent as ever. If his brain was working a little faster, he might find it in himself to feel panicked – that Harry was reacting like this. But he didn’t. As a matter of fact, he felt remarkably calm.

Harry was interested, that much was incredibly clear. Louis may have been the kind of socially inept person to force other people to eat squished, ground pizza but he knew how to read those signs. Harry had wanted to kiss him, Harry had wanted him.

Louis riding too high on that knowledge to even have room to freak out.

Besides, Harry’s doing that enough for the both of them. “Shit,” he says again. His lips are redder than usual, wet and bitten and fuck, Louis thinks, _I did that_. “Gemma is always saying how gross that is – like, like shutting people up by, by – fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Harry,” Louis says feeling a little dazed.

“I should go,” Harry is in the middle of saying, and that is just unacceptable. His brain clearing a little, Louis sits up straighter. He nudges at Harry’s arm with his elbow, and recaptures the frantic boy’s attention.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says again.

Harry looks down at him with wide, concerned eyes.

“Would you please, _please_ do it again?”

Harry’s jaw snaps shut. His gaze drops to Louis’ mouth – which is probably the same bitten red as Harry’s – and slowly wets his lips.

Louis can practically feel it as his own pupils dilate.

“Yeah?” Harry says throatily.

 _Fuck_ yeah, Louis thinks.

He nods his head far more enthusiastically than he intended – but he can’t quite bring himself to care, because Harry’s leaning a little closer and his lips are parted enticingly. Louis swallows thickly.

Harry’s practically close enough to taste and Louis wants to do that very, very badly.

Harry, however, has something to say. “I really like you, you know,” he murmurs. He lifts a hand and, in the douchiest move possible, tucks a strand of Louis’ messy hair behind his ear. His fingers linger on the curve of Louis’ ear, and Louis shivers.

Then Harry kisses him again, and it’s nothing at all to fall right back into it. Louis brings both of his hands up – one to thread through Harry’s curls, and the other to clutch at the nape of Harry’s neck – while Harry snakes an arm around Louis’ waist to keep him from falling backwards. They rock into each other first, and then fall gently backwards.

Harry curls his body a little, pushing himself up over Louis and pressing him sweetly into the picnic rug. Not once does he pull his lips away. He brings his free hand down from Louis’ neck and strokes a light line across the lines of Louis’ collarbones. It’s oddly erotic, the soft skate of Harry’s fingertips over Louis’ bones, and he gasps a little.

It only gets better, as well. Torturously slowly, Harry drags his fingers down Louis’ front – brushing over his sternum and his belly and coming to a stop at the hem of Louis’ shirt. Harry wastes no time pushing the fabric up and out of his way, so that he can settle his large palm on the hot skin of Louis’ hip.

And fuck, Louis thinks. It’s all so _fucking_ tame, but here he is feeling so fucking lost. He feels almost consumed.

Of course, that’s when a coke can collides with the side of Louis’ head.

Louis hisses and pulls away. A strand of spit connects his mouth to Harry’s, who looks bloody fucking pornographic with his pink cheeks and pinker lips. Louis wipes his lips furious and spins to look at the coke-thrower.

Zayn grins wickedly at him from a few metres away. “Enjoying yourself?” he whispers –

Louis pegs the coke can back at him with all his might and grins triumphantly when Zayn yelps. He doesn’t pay any him any mind after that, turning back to look at Harry.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Wanna come back to mine?”

Harry smiles, but shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll take you to dinner though?”

And that – that is not what Louis had been expecting.

He feels this throat go a little dry as he stares at Harry, who’s watching him with serene, content little smile. Dinner, Louis thinks. Harry wants to take him to dinner.

“Seriously?” he says, and his voice wavers embarrassingly.

Harry’s smile widens, and fuck, there are the dimples. “Sure,” he says, his voice three tones lower than usual. Louis wonders errantly if _he_ did that, and his stomach twists a little. “Beside,” Harry continues. “I owe you for the pizza, don’t I?”

Louis’ face flames. There’s not really a lot he can say in response, is there?

Harry takes pity on him though. “Shush,” Harry says quickly, like he can tell he just sent Louis’ brain into a tailspin. “I’m joking. There’s an Italian place just around the corner, if you feel up to it?”

Louis feels up to it. Louis absolutely, definitely, certainly feels up to it.

“I, uh – yeah,” he says, “yeah, we could do that.”

Harry leans in and kisses him again – and it’s soft and it’s sweet and Louis’ brain may well be having an aneurism because it appears that Harry would like – not only to fuck Louis, but – to _date_ him.

He smiles against Harry’s lips.

“I hope you know,” he says carefully, slowly. “That I’m going to be incredibly demanding. Clingy, even.”

“Absolutely,” Harry smiles back.

Louis frowns a little though. “And you’re fine with that?” He checks incredulously.

Harry just grins wickedly though, and pressed forward to nip at Louis’ bottom lip. “Call me your boy again,” he says abruptly.

Eighty percent of Louis’ blood flows directly into his pants.  

The words shoot up Louis’ spine like a shiver and he flushes – _holy god, oh, my god, thank you Jesus,_ his brain sings – and really, there’s nothing he’d like to do more. He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear and he’s so close to saying it –

Zayn ruins it, of course. “Get a fucking room,” he says loudly.

Louis narrows his eyes and makes a resolute decision.

He and Harry are going on a date, and it’s going to be the first of many sweet and perfect dates. They’ll drink red wine and talk about each other like adults and maybe even play footsie under the table.

But when it’s all over? He’s absolutely going to drag his boy upstairs and blow him in Zayn’s bed.  

.

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are my lifeblood
> 
> if you liked it pls reblog the tumblr [post](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/120580230857) (also if you [follow](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/) me i will 10000000% follow you back)  
>  


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